A New Detective In 221 Baker Street
by ARandomTimeTraveller
Summary: When Riley Noble, a friend of John's from the war, returns to London after being believed KIA, she is invited by Mrs. Hudson to stay in 221C, unbeknownst to John and Sherlock. what will happen, how will the boys feel about sharing the house with Riley, and just what will Sherlock do when he finds he's not the only "master of deduction"?
1. Chapter 1

221 B Baker Street, London, England, 12 November, 2013 21:40

"Watson! Go!"

"Run! Everybody run!"

"Hit the deck!"

John Watson sat up straight in his bed, drenched in cold sweat. His room in 221B was silent and dark.

It was the first time he'd had the dream in years. The dream where his teammate sacrificed her life to save his squad...

Outskirts of Kandahar, Afghanistan, 13 November, 2011 06:00

"Watson! Run!" I shouted as we went, urging him to go faster.

"Watson! Go!" I yelled to my teammate, Dr. John Watson, as he went to stop and give me cover fire.

"What?! No! I'm not leaving you to die!" he shouted above the gunfire.

"RUN! EVERYBODY _RUN_!" I heard Sergeant Hullum shout.

"Just _GO_, Watson!" He obeyed my order, throwing the last of the wounded from the base over his shoulder and barrelling towards the transport vehicle. I, however, went the opposite direction, leading the Taliban Soldiers to believe that was where we were going, as they were just getting a good view of me. I ran until I heard the transport vehicles drive away, then I dropped my weapons. Perhaps if I disarmed myself, they wouldn't kill me right away...

Unknown Location in the heart of Kandahar, Afghanistan, 10 November 2011 08:46

"What are the British plans regarding attacks on The Taliban?!" Greasy Guy slur-yelled at me. I was dumped in this cell about an hour ago, and now "Greasy Guy" as I had mentally taken to calling him, was "interrogating" me. He was obviously intoxicated in some form, and he had his keys just _hanging _from his belt, along with a few knives, and a rifle was slung over his chest.

"I don't think I wanna tell you." I say, grinning slightly. This guy is intoxicated and unstable on his feet. He isn't very well trained in the first place, and the pitiful state he's in just makes it worse. He'll be easy to take down, and if he was aloud to get as bad as he was, chances are the other men in this base will be too.

Greasy Guy pulls an angry face and pulls out one of his knives. He holds it as if he's going to chop up a vegetable- he's obviously not trained in how to use knives. The zip-ties they put on my hands aren't even industrial grade- easy to break. I brace my arms together, and slam the ties down on my back- they break easily, and then I quickly disarm Greasy Guy and knock him unconscious with a strong punch to the temple. I then take his belt of knives, his guns, and his keys. I then run down the skuzzy hallway outside my cell, taking out guards with Greasy Guy's pistol as I go. I run into the first room I see, which turns out to be a "Tech Room". I find two flash drives, one with the label "British Plans" on it, and one unmarked. The British one has a passcode lock on it, and obviously they couldn't figure it out. The other one I opened up using one of the laptop computers in the room. I found it to contain all sorts of important info on The Taliban. Then I downloaded the contents of every computer in the room's hard drive onto the flash drive, and wiped them all clean. I stuck both flash drives into the pocket of my combat fatigues, and then grabbed my duffel bag, which I found in the corner, and stuffed it with as much food and money I could find, then stole one of their Jeeps, and drove away, no one any the wiser that a prisoner had escaped.


	2. Chapter 2

A Random Bench in Hyde Park, London, England, 13 November, 2013. 4:23

I woke to the sound of Geese. The idiots were flopping around in the little pond I was sleeping by. I got up, stuffing my thin blanket back into my bag, and stretching. It took me just a day over 2 years to make it back to London from Kandahar, not bad I'd say.

"today's my ceremony!" I say in realization, out loud. I guess it's time to go crash my own party.

I get up, dusting my hands off on my jeans, and running a hand through my hair. It was wet.

"oh, GREAT!" I shout. "it just had to get rainy on my hair!"

I storm off in a huff, the honour ceremony for my "sacrifice" was in half an hour, and I had to go quite a way to get there, being devoid of all native money, I can't take a taxi. As I walk I pull a power bar out of my bag, high-energy foods are what I need to keep myself going until lunch. As I eat the bar, I ponder on who all will be there. I had heard somewhere that John was invalidated home, so he might be there, and maybe Private Jenkins, we were pretty good friends. I'm done my bar, so I pull out an apple too- eat that as well.

Once I get to where the ceremony is being held, I'm surprised to find quite a large amount of people there- the whole squad and more. It's kind of gratifying. I step in just as they begin. My hair all tangled, my hands scarred and worn, and obviously underfed, I'm most definately not the same woman as the one on the projection they show. In the projection, I have shiny brown hair, still with my blue streaks in it. My face is smiling, and my eyes actually shine. I'm genuinely happy in the picture, something that is less common now.

As I look wistfully at the picture, I don't notice as someone comes up to me. "Hello." I spin around as I hear a familiar voice. Sergeant Hullum, with a limp and about three years worth of wrinkles, is standing behind me. I thought he was old before- he got old fast now. I notice he has a wedding band- He finally got married.

"Hello." I reply politely. There's no sense in telling him who I am now, I don't want to bother with it in a room full of people who no doubt thought I was dead for many years now.

"come to pay your respects to Detective Riley Noble?"

"Indeed I have. I knew her when we were in school. We took the same course."

"She was bright wasn't she? Had such great spirit. Used to come in and cheer up the patients in the infirmary."

"mm." I say, watching as John Watson takes the stage.

"Hello." he starts off, addressing all of us. "As you all know, this ceremony is to honour Riley Noble, a great woman, and an amazing person. She was always there for everyone on the squad, and was willing to give her life so we could live. She had such a bright mind, and such a great personality. She would go on her breaks to cheer up the patients in the infirmary, she would help us solve any little mystery we had, and was always there when we needed her most. Above all else she was my best friend, and I wish that she could be here to see that all these people have gathered here to honour her."

and that was all I could take. My eyes teared up, and I had to excuse myself to get a tissue from the box at the back of the room. As I passed a man in a dark trench coat, I could feel his eyes studying me intently. I looked him over in a quick glance, and found quite a bit. finds life in public tedious, is grinding teeth and breathing slowly, bored. hates tedious tasks. doesn't get along with most of the people, has quite a lot of dirty looks being shot his way, ignoring all of them, doesn't care. not married, never has been, no ring line at all on ring finger. is quite wealthy, wearing very expensive clothes, doesn't care about money or expensive-ness, has multiple stains on all of the clothing, except the shoes. light acid burning on the coat cuffs, works with chemicals. plays violin, has a resin stain on the bottom of his shirt where he got it on his hands and wiped it off, and he has marks in his skin where he was holding the violin and bow. the way he is looking at me intently, he's deducing me as well, he works in the detective field.

satisfied with my deductions, I finally move on, blowing my nose on the tissue I retrieved, and leaning against the wall near the door as the people continue on with their speeches, telling stories about my greatest moments.

x-x-x-x- two_ hours later _-x-x-x-x

as everyone cleared out of the large hall where the ceremony was, I went too, hiding in the middle of the crowd, unable to let people, _John,_ specifically, see my face. I watch from the shadows as John gets into a cab with the man I deduced earlier and hear him call him Sherlock. they're flatmates, apparently, and John has had quite the string of lovers, judging by the fact that Sherlock couldn't remember the name of the most recent girlfriend. after watching them go, I head off for Scotland Yard. I have some files to deliver.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! ARTT here! Yeah, I've decided to call myself that for now. So, just a note, this is all I do during class, I find everything we do tedious... so, I write this on paper at school and then transfer it to my computer every day. If anyone actually reads this, if I stop writing for a day and you by some miracle panic because you like it, I'll let you know if I decide to stop. Also, I'm not from London, so if geography or slang terms or whatever are used incorrectly, my apologies. :) Also, the timing is probably WAY off, but I wanted this to be more modern. Now, onto the story!**

As I walked along the streets of London, I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings. A man proposing to his girlfriend tonight. a woman, cheating on her husband with his boss. a child whose "mother" was really the woman who killed his true mother, and then, after years in prison, adopted him, unknowing that it was the child of the woman she had killed. I continue on, deducing everyone I see. I think back on what John had said about me. "A great woman", he had said. Did he really think so? I wondered what he would think if he found out I was alive.

"Oh, what a day it's been..." I mutter to myself.

Walking along the street, I just enjoy the quiet hustle and bustle, so different from the loud gunshots of war, and the silence of the open road. Finding it comforting, I relax and slowly wander around, eventually finding my destination. As I entered Scotland Yard, I was greeted by a woman with dark hair and skin. Her name-tag read "Sgt. Donovan", and she had a dark scowl on her face. A man stood in the back of the room, with dark, greasy looking hair, dark eyes, and another scowl. They were perfect for each other, and judging by the fact that they had the same deodorant, they probably knew that. The man's name-tag read Anderson, and he had the imprint of a ring mark on his finger. Used to be married, left for Donovan. Donovan felt unappreciated, so was doing whatever jobs she could to get more attention from her superiors, as normally a sergeant wouldn't be working a desk job.

I ignore my findings and walk up to the desk where Donovan is stationed.

"Hello, how may we help you today?" Donovan asks in a dull voice.

"I um... need to speak with the highest authority you can come up with right now."

Anderson walks over, eying me suspiciously. "And why is that?" he asks.

"and I thought you two were detectives." I mutter. "I've got something I need to deliver. It's really important that it gets to the officials, whether that be police or government." I say. Feeling awkward. Perhaps Buckingham Palace would have been a better choice...

"how do we know it's not a bomb or something?" Anderson persists.

"Anderson, I'm carrying a British military issued duffel bag, and BM issued boots, therefore I obviously worked in the military, for a long time based on the fact that the soles in the boots are worn, which would be very difficult without having worn them a _long _time. I'm not carrying anything that is emitting a mechanical humming sound, so I have no mechanical objects, at least no active ones. That, and the fact that I'm a military trained hobo who _walked_ from _Afghanistan,_ just to deliver this, means it's almost _definitely_ not a bomb."

the two stare at me for a couple seconds before Donovan picks up a radio. "Lestrade, I think we might need Mycroft Holmes for this."

x-x-x-x-About half an hour later-x-x-x-x

I had just finished solving my rubik's cube for the tenth time over when a man, equipped with an umbrella and outfitted in a very expensive suit entered the room where I had been "stationed", which was more like my jail cell for the time being. My bag was on the floor next to me, and the man, presumably Mycroft Holmes, stared at it for a couple seconds before he focused on me. I studied him for a few seconds, deducing that he was a government man, who was rather distant from his family, has a ring on his right hand, not a wedding ring, too simple. He's a rich man, his wedding band would be more extravagant. He is very high-thinking of himself, the way he looks at me is the way a regular person would look at a goldfish. He constantly rubs his stomach unconsciously, he's on a diet and hungry.

Done my deductions, I return to my rubik's cube, and ignore him and his man throat clearings until the cube has returned to it's orderly state of each side having a different colour. When I'm finished, I look up at him, place the puzzle in my bag, and retrieve the flash drives from the pocket of my combat fatigues, where I put them all those many months ago. "Those were in a Taliban outpost. You're lucky the idiots aren't as good at code-breaking as I am, or every war would be significantly more difficult." I tell him, fiddling with the zipper on my bag.

"And just what was a woman such as yourself doing in a Taliban outpost hmm?" he asks me, smiling slightly.

"I think you already know the answer to that Mr. Holmes."

"indeed, I can tell by your boots." He says. "however, I cannot find any files on you."

"Maybe try in the KIA section." I say curtly. "I seem to have been.. mis-listed."

He flicks through his phone for a moment. "Ah, here we are. Detective Riley Noble."

"That's me."

"Apparently killed during the Taliban attack on Med Base Echo almost exactly two years ago."

"Nah, dying is too boring. I was captured, taken to their base, and interrogated."

"How did you escape, with prime intel, no less?"

"My interrogator was intoxicated, and not very well trained."

"And how did you make it back?"

"I stole their Jeep."

"and when it ran out of gas?" he pressed.

"I walked."

"From Afghanistan?"

"Yes."

He grimaced. "Must have been horrible."

"It was very tedious."

"You walked from Afghanistan and found it tedious?"

"Yes, I did. Problem?"

"No, no. Of course not. You just remind me of my brother, Sherlock."

"He doesn't happen to have a flatmate called John Watson, does he?"

"Indeed he does, how did you know?"

"I saw him earlier. He and John Watson were at my.. ah, ceremony. John was my teammate in the war."

"Ah, yes, I remember him saying something about that."

"Yeah, two years ago today, I was pronounced KIA."

"and John took it hard, didn't he?"

"I wouldn't know. I was walking."

"So, Riley Noble. What would you like me to do for you?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, you delivered some very important and top secret files to me safely. Something like that deserves a reward, surely."

"I don't want to live on the streets anymore."

"That, Detective Noble, I can do."

**There ya go, folks. Review if you can, I like reviews and I take criticism well, so lay it on me. tell me how I can make this better, please. thanks! ~ARTT**


	4. Chapter 4

"So dear, do you like it?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she finished showing me 221C Baker Street.

"It's much better than my old accommodations, that's for sure." I joke, grinning a bit.

"Oh, when Mycroft told me you were looking for a flat in the area, I knew that 221C would be just the place!" she said going into what I had started to call her chatting phase. "mind you, you _will_ have to share a kitchen and a living room with 221B, I hope that's alright. Sherlock keeps his heads in the fridge, and his eyeballs in the microwave..."

"that's quite alright. I'm used to funny stuff in the fridge, when I was in University, I had this roommate, and she and I kept all sorts of stuff in the fridge. I had a collection of fingernails!" I say, grinning full-out now.

"Alright dear. I'll go make us some tea, how do you take yours?"

"I...I don't quite remember. 2 milk, 1 sugar, I think." I say. She heads upstairs, and I sit down on the couch of 221B. My flat, 221C, is fully paid for by Mycroft until I'm back on my feet. He gave me £500,000, as well as the fact that I'll be paid 2,000 more each month for info on Sherlock. Mycroft is pretty much single-handedly keeping me afloat until I get my pay from my job, (which he also set up for me.) I'll be working under Detective Inspector Lestrade as part of Scotland Yard Forensics. Mycroft has been a blessing, but that doesn't mean I like him. His stuck up demeanour, they way he looks at everyone like they're just goldfish swimming about his own little tank is disgusting, but he has been helpful in keeping me off the streets.

"Here dear." Mrs. Hudson comes up, handing me a steaming cup of tea.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

As we sipped our tea in the living room of 221B, Mrs. Hudson told me about the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Turned out my deductions were right, Sherlock was a "Consulting Detective", he invented the job. And of course he does play the violin, mostly at 2 in the morning, according to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock and John solve crimes together, and John blogs about it, which had been very popular, apparently. Sherlock faked his own death last year, and even though he had only known him for a year, John was very upset, and is still really bitter about it.

After about an hour, Mrs. Hudson went back upstairs to do something, and I borrowed her shampoo and soap, and went to have a shower. Turning on the warm water, I stepped in the shower and cleaned the layer of dirt off my skin that had accumulated over the past two years. And, for the first time in almost 3 years, I cleaned my hair with shampoo. I spent about a half an hour just cleaning my hair. By the time I got out, I felt like a completely new person. I put on a pair of clothes that Mrs. Hudson bought me at the store when she went out to buy milk. A blue T-shirt that complimented my grey eyes, a pair of dark blue jeans, and a black hoodie. As a habit, I still wore my dog tags under my shirt, the metal tags the only proof to anyone that I'm not dead. After I was done, I brushed my hair and put it up into a ponytail, another first in years. Then I made fish fingers and custard, my ultimate comfort food, and sat down in front of the telly to watch Doctor Who.

x-x-x-x-2 Hours Later-x-x-x-x

I had gone out, and bought a bed, a keyboard, a violin, a bunch of clothing, the necessary items for daily life, and lots of fish fingers and custard, among other food. Now I was sitting, watching "The Angels Take Manhattan", an episode of Doctor Who.

"Amy, Rory! NOOOOOOOOO!" I cried. Even after watching it twice, I still cried when they died. Sniffling, and wiping my tears away with my sleeve, I took a massive bite of fish fingers and custard, still crying like a diehard whovian. After my crying fest, I turned off the telly, drying my eyes and shaking my head to clear the images of weeping angels from my head. Opening the fridge, I ignore the severed head sitting on a plate, taking a mental note of which plate it is, I set my leftover fish fingers on the seemingly designated "food shelf", where there were no body parts, just food. That must have been John. I smile, remembering when Private Jones got drunk and put a grenade in John's mini fridge, scaring the pants off him. I close the fridge and resume my place on the sofa, pulling out my new laptop and starting to watch Youtube. Pulling up the Youtube page of my old favourite company, I see they've started an anime. I open the first episode and begin to watch it. I get so caught up in it that I don't notice when Mrs. Hudson comes up behind me, watching over my shoulder as one of the main characters decapitates a bird with her scythe, and I keep not noticing until she gasps, saying something about "violent like Sherlock". I close the laptop, and am just about to head back downstairs when I hear the door open, and two pairs of footsteps enter. I open my laptop and resume watching, waiting for the inevitable conversation with John.

"John, Sherlock, is that you dears?" Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen where she's making tea.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson." John calls up.

"John, I have a little bit of a surprise for you dear." she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.

"And what's that now? the new tennant? isn't someone I know is it?"

"Come up here and see!"

I close my laptop and set it aside. Sherlock Holmes is the first to enter the living room. He shows mild surprise at my presence, seeing as I was at the ceremony. Then John comes in. He takes one look at me, and slaps Sherlock.

"Ouch, what was that for?"

"Well, when you're dreaming, You're supposed to hurt yourself to wake up."

"That doesn't explain why you slapped me."

"I didn't want to hurt myself."

I stand up slowly. "Well, I walked all the way from Afghanistan to see you and you think I'm a figment of your imagination? That's rather rude, John."

"Riley Noble. Where the _BLOODY HELL_ have you been?!"

"Walking from Afghanistan."

"Well, you always were stubborn." He chuckles, hugging me tightly. "All the way from Afghanistan? How did you get out of there _alive?_"

"It's a really long story, that I'd rather not tell. It was a tedious journey that I have no wish to repeat." I say, hugging him back.

"You are definitely the same Riley Noble. only you could walk across Europe and North-West Asia and find it tedious." he says, releasing me.

"I don't think you need proof, but here." I say, pulling out my dog tags and handing them to him.

"I definitely do not need proof" he says, after looking them over. he hands them back to me. and then sits down on the couch. I take my seat again as well, and Sherlock, ever the odd one out, takes his chair, which I had been warned not to sit in.

"So, Sherlock, of course this is Detective Captain Riley Noble, the woman whose ceremony we went to earlier."

"Yes, and she was there as well."

"You were?!" John asks. "Why didn't you tell me then?"

"I had something I had to.. ah, deliver first."

"Deliver? to who?"

"Well, I was hoping to avoid this conversation, but..." I clear my throat awkwardly. "When I was "captured" by the Taliban, I had to do an escape thingy. And when I was going through the base trying to find my way out, I found a tech room. and in said tech room, were some memory sticks. those memory sticks had info on all the British Military stats, all the weapons we had, all the locations of bases, everything. there was another one with Taliban plans on it, and both of those were very 'Top Secret'. so, the first thing I did after the ceremony was head to Scotland Yard, where I got them to set me up a meeting with the British Government," I pause. "A.K.A. Mycroft Holmes." I look to their faces, and both of them had looks of major and minor disbelief. "He set me up this place as compensation for recovering the files, and I'll be paid to keep him updated on you guys, which, of course will not be anything you don't want him to know. I'm not a spy, but I do need money, and an extra 2,000 quid for a little bit of info that he'll already know will not go amiss."

"As I told John after he was asked to do the same thing. You _do_ seem very circumstantially aware, for someone who has been away for so long." Sherlock mused.

I went into what I called my "thinking position", where my hands were in the prayer position, with my fingertips touching my nose, and my thumbs resting on the bottom of my chin. "I tend to be very aware of my surroundings, Mr. Holmes, unlike many people in the world. you also seem to do the same. however you miss such very important things. like the fact that even through your childish bickering, your brother still cares about you, and that many people would properly respect you if you were nicer to them, and that you show signs of both minor Psychopathic tendencies as well as High-Functioning Sociopathic. Also, you tend to go amiss on minor details in your deductions based on the fact that you are too impatient to understand a so-called normal human thought pattern. when under high-stress, people tend to act erratically, which you constantly seem to forget in your cases. Oh, and your human hand has carpal-tunnel syndrome, it wont be of any use for your planned experiment." I say, my eyes wandering to the hand on the counter, with a list of notes next to it.

"How..." Sherlock muttered, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"I told you she was like you." John said, grinning a bit.

"I was on your blog, earlier John. Quite interesting, though I think the writing style is a bit.. ah, sentimental, nevertheless, an interesting read, seeing as Sherlock doesn't update his anymore. I was a little disappointed by all the unreadable archived case files, though the ones that _are_ readable are quite interesting."

Sherlock and John both grinned at the idea of me reading their blogs, though Sherlock's was much less noticeable. I got the feeling 221C was going to be a great new start, and having another deducer around just might bring Sherlock down a notch. I was excited, to say the least.

**So, what'dya think? is it good? is it meh? is it bad? is it horrible? let me know! please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

My newly bought phone buzzes harshly, waking me from my peaceful slumber. I slide out of bed, falling and hitting my head on the floor. I grunt in pain at the sharp impact, and drag myself to the bathroom located next to my room. Plopping myself into the shower, I turn on the water, starting out cold and turning warm. My sore legs scream at the feeling of warmth on them, after walking for so long, that's to be expected. I turn off the water, drying myself off with a fluffy towel and putting on a pair of brown pinstriped suitpants, a long-sleeve white shirt, and a suit jacket that matches the pants. I put on a floral print tie, and pull on a pair of tan converse. I look at myself in the mirror, and say to my reflection, "Hello, I'm The Doctor." I grin, noting the fact my clothes are exactly the same as the 10th Doctor in Doctor Who. I pull my curly brown hair into a ponytail, and I grab my phone and glasses off my bedside table before running upstairs to eat. I clumsily pour chocolate cheerios into a bowl, and pour milk on top. I hastily eat my cereal before grabbing my "ten coat" as I called it, completing my overly whovian look.

As I'm running out the door, I bump into John, who simply says "Well hello, there Miss Doctor."

"Allons-y!" I call back, as I run out the door, stuffing my glasses and phone into my coat pocket, along with the 20 pound notes I stored there yesterday. I hail a taxi, getting in and telling the driver, "Scotland Yard, please!"

along the way, the cabbie notices my Doctor-esque apparel, and we chat about Doctor Who, and I tip the cabbie significantly as I get out and run into the building which I can now call work. I walk in, and spot Donovan, still sitting at her spot at the desk like yesterday. This time, I walk right past the desk and go through a gate, flashing my shiny new badge to the security officer. As soon as I got into the office, I was turned around by Lestrade, and walked right back out again. My first day on the job, and already there's a case.

We drive to the crime scene, and the whole way over Sally and I were bickering over whether or not the tenth doctor or the eleventh doctor was better. Sally was a very obvious fan of eleven, and eventually Anderson ended the original argument by saying that Doctor Who sucked, and that made us both start yelling at him for being an idiot. Lestrade eventually stopped us, saying that we had put our point across.

When we got to the crime scene, a large abandoned building on the East End of London, we were lead to the body by a very serious looking man with a moustache and I couldn't help but try deducing him.

He had a pair of sunglasses tucked into his pocket, but London hardly ever had enough sun to need sunglasses, so it was a habit. Judging by his accent he was from America, I would guess probably Florida by the amount of tan. He wasn't married, but he was awhile ago, there's still a ring line on his finger. He was right-handed, he both lifted up the police line tape, and opened the door to the building with his right hand. He's struggling for money, his "home clothes", meaning his socks, shoes, and hat are all old and have numerous spots where they've been mended out of necessity. He had two kids, when he pulled his badge out of his pocket, a picture of them fell out, but they looked nothing like each other, so I would say from two separate mothers.

When we got to the body, I pulled off my coat, gave it to Anderson to hold, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. I walked over and took in a first glance, no deductions yet. He had a backpack, a large, bulky coat with a fur lined hood, a pair of well-worn jeans, and shoes with a lot of wear on the soles, though the shoes themselves are rather new.

I searched his pockets, finding a wallet kept on the left-hand side, so he's left handed. I searched his backpack, finding a few books in Arabic, which I laid on the ground beside his wallet. I also pulled out a tablet computer, a pair of shoulder pads, a smartphone, and a half-eaten banana. I turned the man over and studied his wound.

His shirt was slashed open, with multiple long, diagonal cuts along his abdomen, that were rather shallow, except for one which went in deep, cutting open his lower abdomen and going all the way into his stomach. Feeling slightly grossed out by this, I went deeper anyway, noting nothing more. He ate some form of beef, judging by the remains still in there, however, curiously enough, there was no banana.

I flipped open the wallet I had found on him, and found his ID. Ryaan Rushdi Dalloul, aged 27, originally from Riyadh, though had been living Canada for just long enough to have gotten Canadian citizenship, about 3 years, due to the fact all his Canadian ID were made within the last month. I opened up his phone, which foolishly did not have a passcode on it, and brought up his text messages. He had over 100 texts from an unlabelled number, 50 from "coach", 240 from "mom", and a few from random names.

I opened up the messages from the unlabelled number and read them. It was threats regarding an American Football game. The person sent him many many text that seemed friendly enough at first, asking for confirmation that it was Ryaan, chatting small talk with him, but then things began to get creepy. The unknown person told him not to go to the football game, and about 4 hours later, told him that he shouldn't have gone. He started threatening Ryaan, telling him if he came for the game in London, he would be killed, and then explained in horrible detail what would happen to him. Every message ended with the initials JN.

Scrolling through some info on Ryaan's team, The Rams, I found a name that fit the bill. Josh Nicholson, one of Ryaan's three competitions for the Quarterback position, which I hear is a pretty big deal to them. The others were Brady Shea and Jacob McKay, and I listed off those names to Lestrade, who wrote them down and sent them off to be found.

I replaced the phone with the rest of the evidence, and started deducing on the young man. He was wearing bright colors, a very neon lime green sweatshirt on under his jacket, a pair of dark jeans, and bright yellow sneakers, so he wanted lots of attention, probably neglected as a child. He wore a pair of dogtags around his neck, hidden under his shirt. The names on them were different from his own, but shared the last name. The birth date was older than him, but was too soon to be a parent, so an older sibling perhaps? The wear on the bottom of his soles suggest he does a lot of running in those shoes, but those aren't american football shoes, they wear cleats for that sport, so he does running in a different sport, as they only have significant wear in one pattern, he has a specific running stance for running, but if you're running _from_ something, you tend to not bother with a stance. His clothing is all very expensive, but he doesn't have a proper job, so I would say family is rich, probably parents, based on my earlier deduction that he was neglected as a child. There's no blood on the floor other than the amount that would have leaked from the wound when he was lying on his stomach, but when I look around closer, I see some blood splatters on the wall. The blood was cleaned up, so all the blood samples except the one on the wall will be fouled. This was the kill site, though it's been staged to look like a dump site.

I relay all this info to Lestrade, who writes it all down and hands it off to Anderson, who grumbles, "Why am I the holder boy?" still holding my coat in one hand.

"Because... um..." Lestrade mutters, unable to come up with an answer.

"Because flibble flabble wocky nocky." I shout, confusing the man and effectively making him shut up. I peel off my gloves and toss them in a waste bin. "I'll have to talk to the three suspects later, and I need to find the sword."

"The sword?" Lestrade asks in confusion.

"Yeah. The cuts were long and shallow, but getting deeper then shallower along the length of the cut. It was made by a sword, and the final cut, the deep one, the one that _killed _him, was made once he had lost enough blood to be too weak to defend himself."

"Good lord, you're like sherlock with a ponytail."

"Oh no, Lestrade, I'm not like Sherlock Holmes. I do believe his deduction skills are superior to mine, as he uses them more often, and more... blatantly, as he gives no thought to politeness. I try to be polite, unless the other side of the conversation is rude as well."

Sally grins. "Maybe we won't even need the freak anymore."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." A deep voice sounds from the hall.

"Aaand, there goes that idea." Anderson mutters.

"Philip, be nice to Mr. Holmes, he's just having fun." I say, smirking a little.

"Yes, do please shut up." Sherlock says, coming into the room and hanging his trench coat on Anderson's arm next to mine. "However you make a lovely coat rack."

I take both coats from Anderson, putting mine on and throwing Sherlock's on the ground in a pile. "I'm going to head out and find the sword, I have a pretty good idea where it's hidden." I call, leaving the room in wave of brown.

"I'll text you if he finds anything else!" Lestrade calls.

"Please do!"

I run out of the building and around the back of it, where several skips are. I check the contents of each one and find nothing. But when I check underneath them, I find a metal katana, with blood still caked on the blade. I put on another pair of gloves, and pull the katana out, bringing it back to the room where they were inspecting the body. Sherlock was mumbling something about basketball, and I just plopped the large blade down next to the body, and leave again.

I nod to the guy I had deduced earlier, and hailed a taxi, calling, "Baker Street!"

once I get back to the flat I grab my laptop, and after a little internet surfing, I find where "The Rams" are staying. "The South Place Hotel". So of course I head over there, as I have some questions to ask the three men competing for quarterback position with Ryaan Dalloul. Once again I hailed a cab, and once I got there, I did the only thing I could think of. I went up to the desk, and asked for Josh Nicholson, flashing my badge to the woman at the computer. She directed me to room 234, on floor 3. I was just about to head up to talk to the man, when he came down to me. The entire team was parading across the lobby, cursing and swearing with no thought to the small children around them. I went up to the man that I heard them call Josh, tapping him on the shoulder politely.

He tturned around and grinned at me with what could only be described as a flirty smile. "Hello there, what's your name?" he asked, the grin never falling out of place.

"You're Josh Nicholson, correct?" I ask, smiling slightly.

"Indeed I am." His voice sounds American, though I can tell he's Canadian.

The smile falls off my face, and I hold up my badge. God, this thing works wonders for compliance. "Scotland Yard. You, Jacob McKay, and Brady Shea are under investigation for the murder of Ryaan Rushdi Dalloul."

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, the smiles of the entire team are wiped off their faces. The oldest man, who I assume is the coach, steps forward and asks, "This is a joke right? Ryaan's not really dead, is he?"

"It seems you haven't been told. Ryaan Dalloul was found dead this morning with multiple slash wounds to the abdomen by a katana, which was found a small distance away. His phone was found with multiple anonymous texts threatening his life if he were to come to the game. All had the initials JN, but I won't count out the fact that perhaps it was another person trying to lead us off the trail. There were three main contenders for his spot as quarterback, and so all three of you are under investigation. You have nothing to fear of this investigation, if you have nothing to hide. I say, eying their reactions carefully. Everyone looks confused and scared, but the one who looks the most scared is Brady Shea.

**tell me what you think! I'll be here all day folks, so another chapter may be posted!**** review! ~ARTT**


	6. Chapter 6

"Why do you think Mr. Dalloul was murdered, Mr. Shea?" I ask the brown haired man sitting in front of me, the only thing separating us a one-way sheet of glass.

"I... I dunno. Ryaan was such a nice guy, everyone liked hi-" he pauses. "Almost everyone liked him." says shakily, running a just as shaking hand through his hair nervously.

"What do you mean when you say almost, or rather _who_ do you mean, Brady?"

"Josh. Josh _hated _ Ryaan. Ryaan was always really mean to Josh, but no one else. They had a childhood rivalry, I think, but they were always at each other's necks"

"Do you think Joshua killed Ryaan?"

Brady's blue eyes glazed over, as if remembering a past event. "I wouldn't put it past him. Sometimes he gets this horrible grin on his face, and he looks insane. I'm not a detective, but I know a dangerous person when I see one."

"Indeed, all evidence points to him, but do you think that anyone else might have done it?"

"No, I don't. I can't think of anyone who would _want_ to kill Ryaan."

"When I announced that I was investigating you, you had a flash of fear in your eyes. Why were you so afraid?"

"W-well, if the killer did it because of his position as QB, then we could be next right? Fear for my life, eh?"

"You looked like you were more scared of me, Mr. Shea. Would you mind telling the truth? Lying to me is a crime, and I won't hesitate to have you arrested. Keep in mind I'm not investigating anything but the crimes committed in the UK, and I will not arrest you for anything else."

"I... you promise?"

"Cross my heart."

"Ok. I was.. I was scared that you'd find out that I've been doing marijuana. I didn't want coach to find out, I can't risk being kicked off the team. I've come to far for that now."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Shea." I say, standing and leaving the room in a swish of my brown trench coat.

As soon as I exit the room Lestrade walks up to me. "You just got a drug addict to spill his beans in less than 2 minutes, and you aren't Sherlock Holmes. You are bloody brilliant."

I grin. "Why thank you, Lestrade. I try my best. Now, Jacob McKay, I need to speak with Jacob McKay."

"Why him? Isn't Joshua the murder? I though you said all evidence points to him."

"Exactly. But I have a gut feeling, and if 5 years of detective work has taught me anything, it's that I need to trust, _my_, _GUT, FEELING_!" I shout, grinning. "Oh, I am on a very Doctor-like streak of awesomeness!" I walk into the same room, where Jacob McKay is sitting in a chair, his hand perfectly calm, not a single tremor or shake, he's completely still. But his pupils are dilated, and his breathing is slow, and controlled. He is controlling his fear, but still feeling it.

"Hello, Mr. McKay. Any idea why Ryaan was murdered?"

"Yeah. Josh. Josh hated his guts, man. He- he even jokes about murder, like it's funny or something. The man's a psycho, I'm telling ya."

"And may I ask, are you scared?"

"W-well, any one of us could be next, right?! I mean, if they're targeting the QB, well, I could be next!"

"And do you think Ryaan was killed because of any other reason?"

"Nah. Ryaan was a nice guy. Everybody loved him. He was so cool."

"Do you do any sports other than football, Mr. McKay?"

"I do mixed martial arts. Makes me stronger you know? Josh does it too, but he does just ninjutsu."

"What do you think was the motivation behind the killing, Jacob?"

"I think Josh wanted to be quarterback, and hated Ryaan so much for getting the spot that he upped and killed him."

"Thank you for your time., Mr. McKay."

I walk out of the room. Lestrade walks up to me. "Well? Ninjutsu does utilize katanas in their training."

"Yes. And that was our killer's first mistake. The cuts were odd, misshapen, and _not_ made by someone trained in the use of a katana. And, _and_, Jacob had too much of an idea of a motivation. Brady didn't have that much in the way of an idea for what the motivation was. Jacob obviously put some thought into this. And seeing as he just found out Ryaan was dead 20 minutes ago, I don't think he just came up with this, though I could be wrong. Question Josh, same questions I used. I'm going to talk to some connected parties, and search their rooms." I say, straightening my coat and running out the door.

I got to the hotel at 2:30. The Rams were sitting, looking forlorn and angry, at a table in the lobby. I flashed my badge at the woman at the counter, heading up the elevator to Jacob's room. I jiggle the knob to the door, and when it doesn't open, I impatiently kick open the door, tearing the lock from the door in the process. "oops." I mutter, grinning.

I walk into the room, taking in all the details and pulling on a pair of gloves. The bed hasn't been slept in. They've been here for one day, and one day only. Jacob isn't jet-lagged, so either he slept on the plane, or slept somewhere else last night. I flip open his bag, which was lying on a dresser, and dig through its contents. A large amount of clothing, American Football gear, and a pair of rubber gloves. I stare at the gloves. Acid burns, and blood. I grin, pulling out the gloves, dropping them into a plastic bag, and shove the bag into my pocket. I dig through the bag again, pulling out a baggie, which has a piece of paper in it. It has a note written on it. It reads, "You must not be at the game. You must not be QB. If you don't comply, Ryaan will return." I don't need to guess what that means. The note is signed JN, but it's in Jacob's bag, at the very bottom. If it was a threat to Jacob, it would be on the top. No, Jacob was hiding the note. I grin, taking the whole thing as well, putting the bag in a bag. I dig through again, finding nothing else, I leave the room.

I open the unlocked door of Josh's room, and gasp. There's blood stains on the walls, a katana that matches the one we found at the crime scene, and one thing that's off. The bed has been slept in, for a long period of time, judging by the dent in the bed. I grin. Big mistake. The blood is new, and the katana is obviously not the one we found at the crime scene. This room was vandalized in the last hour.

I slam the door to the room, running down the stairs and bursting out into the lobby. I run up to The Rams, slamming my hands down on their table. "What time did Josh come out of his room?!" they stutter for a moment. "TELL ME NOW!"

"uh, 12:00. he was really sick at 7, and threw up, and then back to went to bed, though."

"Did Jacob leave the group at any time during the last hour before I came here?!"

"Uh, he went to his room to get Josh some Tylenol, but he didn't find any so he came back."

"WAS HE BLEEDING WHEN HE CAME BACK?!" I shout, catching the attention of the whole lobby. I ignore the stares.

"yeah, said he'd cut himself on the mirror."

"THAT'S IT!" I shout, running out of the hotel, before stopping. The traffic was backed up, and cars were crawling. "Oh, for the love of-" I sigh. I crack my knuckles, rolling my neck. "Allons-y!" I shout, breaking into a sprint and running down the street. I run through the crowd, dodging anything in my way. I even swerve into the street to make it easier to run. I follow the route I memorized to Scotland Yard, ignoring anyone who shouted at me for being "a loony who needs to slow down". I hadn't been on a run like this in a long time, and it was exhilarating and exhausting.

I pounded up the steps, and grab hold of Jacob just as he's walking out. "Oh, no you don't, mister murderer." I say cheerfully.

"What? I'm not a murder!" Jacob shouts as I tug him back inside. Everyone stares at me as I pull the man into a cell and lock him there.

Lestrade comes up to me. "Uh, what?"

"He's our killer." I say. "take a look at what I found." I say, showing them the evidence I found in Jacob's bag, and the pictures I took of Josh's room. "Josh can't have been the murderer, he was in bed, sick. His room was vandalized, someone tried to make him look like the murderer. The gloves I found in Jacob's bag have blood stains and acid wear on them, stomach acid wear, specifically. That's from cutting open the stomach with the katana, which was done clumsily because he doesn't have training with it. Josh is in ninjutsu, and he's trained to use a katana. If he had done it, the cuts would have been neater. And, Josh's room was vandalized within an hour of now. Jacob left the group to get Tylenol for Josh, which is the perfect cover story for leaving and destroying the room. He was bleeding when he came back, and that's the blood you see there. The note was hidden in his bag, so he didn't receive it as a threat, he created it. It's in a plastic bag so it gets no fingerprints on it. But the bag has fingerprints, which are Jacob's." I say. "Jacob McKay is our killer."

Lestrade checks to confirm. "You're right. Fingerprints match Jacob McKay." he mutters, giving me a look of awe. "That was bloody brilliant."

Jacob's face contorts into one of sheer rage. "You bitch!" He shouts.

"What? I'm obviously not a dog, so I'm not a literal bitch, so you're trying to insult me, but why? For doing my job? For keeping people safe? I'm sorry, Mr. McKay, but I think if anyone here deserves to be insulted, it's you."

"Ryaan was a stuck up asshole. HE DESERVED TO DIE! I WAS DELIVERING GOD'S WILL!" Jacob screamed.

"Aaaand, now we have a confession. Perfect. Thanks for your time, Mr. McKay. Have fun in prison." I smile, high-fiving Donovan as she passes.

Lestrade grins at me. "A Sherlock Holmes on our team. One who's actually sane. This is the best day ever." he says.

"Please don't compare me to Sherlock, Greg. He's an ass."

Lestrade grins again. "You got that right."

I sit down at my new desk, ready to do paperwork on the case. I decide, sitting there, with Jacob screaming profanities at me, that I love my new job at Scotland Yard.


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, look! I'm back! with another chapter of ANDIBS! yep, that's what this is now nicknamed, because fnarfle. Anyway, hope you enjoy! ~ARTT**

"God damn. DIE ALREADY!" I shout.

"Riley, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson calls from the doorway.

"Yeah. Just.. playing a video game." I call, pulling the trigger on the controller, spraying the Knights with suppressor fire, in my video game, Halo 4. I had discovered it calmed my combat nerves significantly, and had bought it after work.

"Sounds very violent." Mrs. Hudson says, so quietly I almost don't hear.

"It is." I say, grinning as I snipe a Watcher.

"What's very violent?" I hear John say as he comes down the stairs.

"Halo." I call. He turns the corner and stares at the TV screen as I shoot the alien robots. "Good for the combat nerves."

"You get those too?"

"Course. I think most soldiers do."

"Hm." He says, sitting down on the couch with a huff. "How was work?"

"It was ok. Stopped a killer, ruined the day of an entire American Football team, deduced some people, you know. Detective stuff." I look around 221B. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He went off for a case, or something. He was really bored."

"He should try this game. It might help his boredom."

"He'd probably find it 'tedious', or something of the sort."

"Hm. Well, maybe I'll get him watching Doctor Who. He'd probably get frustrated with it, cause it's so unpredictable. He wouldn't be able to deduce it easily."

"Maybe." He says, pulling out his laptop.

"Blogging?" I ask as he begins to type.

"Yep." he says.

I finish the game with a huff. "Aw. It's over."

"Next difficulty?"

"That was the top difficulty."

"You looked like you were having a pretty easy go of it."

"It's what we were trained to have, right? Combat strategies and such?"

"Suppose so." We sit for a while before he speaks again. "You're getting into the swing of life pretty quickly, aren't you? I mean, you're not dwelling on what happened, you're very cheerful, you just sort of.. brush off what happened."

"Mmm. The way I see it, there's no point in dwelling on the bad things, right? It'll just keep bringing you down, so if you just sort of accept that it happened, and that it really sucked, and there's nothing you can do, you just sort of forget about it and move on."

"You ever think about therapy?"

I give him a dirty look. "I don't need therapy, I'm perfectly fine. I've already accepted it, and I've moved into the swing of how life is."

"I s'pose." John mutters, still typing away. "You ok with being mentioned on the blog?"

"Sure." I say, turning on a new game, called Skyrim, and beginning to play. I hear the door slam and a pair of feet tromp up the stairs angrily. I listen carefully to the footsteps, judging weight, height, and balance of the person before determining it's Sherlock, and continuing with my game. Swinging my newly gained sword, I grin triumphantly as I kill a bear in a few swings of my sword. I move on with my digital companion as we run from the cave system we had been trapped in. I'm vaguely aware of John and Sherlock talking, but I don't pay much attention to anything but the game I'm playing until I hear John saying my name.

"Riley, you wanna come with us?"

"Sorry, where?"

"Sherlock has a case. It's not police issued, but it's pretty confusing." John says.

"How so?" I ask, looking at him with interest.

"There's no sign of anything killing him. No poison, no wounds, nothing."

I jump off the couch, saving my game. "Sure. Good mental exercise."

John grabs his coat, and I walk over and grab mine. Pulling on the long coat, I grin. "Allons-y, then?"

John grins. "Allons-y, Riley."

Sherlock gives us a weird look as we run out the door. I pull a grey and blue newsboy cap out of my pocket and pull it over my ears. Sherlock follows us and hails a taxi. We climb in, me in between John and Sherlock because I'm the 'thin one', as Sherlock put it. As the taxi drove along Sherlock and John start to talk about John's blog again.

"But the names are horrible. A Study in Pink? Really, John?"

"What's wrong with it?"

I clench my fists in annoyance. "Will you two stop arguing across me!" I shout, making them both stare at me in shock. "Thank you."

We sit in silence for a while before John finally speaks up. "So, Riley. How was the case?"

"Pretty good. Stopped the killer from getting another person, so I suppose all in all not bad."

"What all happened?" John asks curiously. Sherlock sits silently, eyeing me in a way I can't quite understand.

"Well, Ryaan Dalloul was found with his abdomen slashed open, with one slash even going into his stomach. He was neglected as a child, and was an attention seeker because of this. His brother died in the military, his family was rich, and he was very into sports, he was part of an American Football team. I looked through his phone, there were messages sent to him, threatening him if he were to come to the game here in the UK. They were initialled JN, and one teammate had those initials, Josh Nicholson. But why would a killer add their initials? So we questioned anyone who was a rival for Ryaan's place as quarterback, and we had Brady Shea, Josh Nicholson, and Jacob McKay. Of course, all the evidence pointed to Josh, but Jacob told me two things that were off about the whole thing. Josh is in ninjutsu, and the cuts in Ryaan's body were not made by anyone trained to use a katana, which was the murder weapon. That, and the fact that Jacob had a large idea of why Josh would kill Ryaan, made him suspicious. So I checked his hotel room, and found a pair of rubber gloves with acid wear on them, a threatening note in a plastic baggie that said 'Ryaan would return', and of course it was hidden at the bottom of the bag. If it was threatening him, it would be on top." I pause, taking a deep breath. "So then I checked Josh's room. Blood stains on the walls, a katana that was the same as the one we found at the crime scene, and the bed had been slept in for a long period of time. The blood was about one hour old, the katana was not the same, and the bed had been slept in all night, because Josh had jet lag. I questioned their teammates, Jacob had gone to get Tylenol for Josh, and that's when he vandalized the room, and when he came back he was bleeding. He had used his own blood for the blood stains. The baggie the note had been in had Jacob's fingerprints on them, and once I revealed this, Jacob flipped out and admitted." I say, finishing with a huff. "So that was the case."

John stares at me for a few seconds. "Bloody hell, Riley."

I stare at him, confused for a second. "What?"

"You really _are _like Sherlock."

Sherlock and I glare at him "Am not!"

"Is not!" Sherlock says at the same time.

John grins as I whip around and glare at Sherlock. "Oi, don't copy me!"

"I wasn't copying you, you were copying me." he retorts.

"No, we simply thought.." I say, trailing off.

"The same thing at the same time." We chorus.

John puts his hands up to his face. "Would you two knock it off?"

"Shut up John." Sherlock says.

"Aand, now it's back two fighting with John. You really are argumentative."

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. John and I share a look before bursting out laughing. Sherlock looks at us as if we just started licking the taxi windows. "What?"

We just can't stop laughing long enough to answer him.

When we finally get to the place where the body was found, a dentist's office, the police are there. "I thought you said it wasn't police issued?"

Sherlock glances at me. "It's not. I invited myself."

I sigh. "You don't need to." I pull out my phone, glancing at the screen, before showing him the text message displayed on the screen. It was from Lestrade. It was actually talking about the case.

Sherlock snatched the phone from my grasp. "What? He invited you?" He glances at me. "You and not me?"

"I would have invited you." I say, grinning.

He smirks. "Good to know I'll have someone on my side at The Yard."

"That doesn't mean I'll support your abuse against Anderson."

"What abuse? I simply tell him about his own stupidity."

"I'm not arguing with you on this, it's Anderson abuse." I say, grinning as the three of us head over to the crime scene. I lift the yellow police tape, ducking under it with confidence as Donovan comes up to me.

"Hello, Detective Noble." She says, smiling.

"Hello Sergeant Donovan." I grin back.

She turns at the sound of Sherlock arguing with Anderson. "What's he doing here?"

"Oh, he was curious, figured there'd be no harm in letting him take a look before the professionals got to work." I say, grinning as Sherlock shot me a look of shock and what _looked _like hurt, but was slightly more humorous. I wink at him.

"Anyway, lets get to work." Donovan says, tugging on my arm to lead the way. "The guy was found with no signs of murder. Just dead. Sure, there's weapons, and all that, but they haven't been used." She says as we walk into the room. The dental chair where the body is is covered in light blue faux-leather, and there are weapons and torture devices scattered everywhere. There are syringes filled with multicoloured liquid on a tray, and the dead man is strapped to the chair, a mask over his mouth. The man himself is about 40, with greying dark hair and smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He was rather tall, about 6 foot 1, and he was slightly pudgy.

I walk over and pull the mask off the body with a sharp motion. I sniff it, before finding the tell-tale sign of the scent I'm looking for. "Isoflurane was used to put him under." I say, setting the mask on a tray attached to the chair. "It's got a pretty distinct smell, I had it when I got my tonsils out when I was five, never forgot it." I say, unstrapping the body from the chair and snapping on some latex gloves from my pocket. "however, he was also injected with something intravenously." I say, peering a a small mark on his wrist. "couple of hours ago, judging by the bruising." I look at Anderson, who had just entered. "Anderson, can you make sure they send a blood sample to the lab?" he nods his head and leaves again. I look at the man, standing over his with a critical eye, deducing him. "He's been married for... 5 years." I say, looking at his wedding rings. "happily, his ring's been polished and it hasn't been taken off in a long time." I look at his hands. "Dirt under the fingernails, plant matter all over his hands, he's a gardener." I look at his clothing. "He's wearing some rather nice clothes, so he's pretty well off." I look at the hat he has tucked in his pocket. "But this hat is raggedy. He's obviously holding onto it for sentimental values, it's been patched twice."

I look at his body. "His eyes are bulged, and his face is in the expression of panic." I press my hands to his temples. "He has some veins bulging, he was putting a lot of effort in fighting something." I feel his neck. "Same with his neck. He was probably fighting against his bonds." I look at the things around him. "He probably panicked when he saw all this," I say, gesturing to the tools around me. "and began to struggle with all his might." I turn as Anderson re-enters the room. "Anderson, could you get this body to Bart's as soon as possible? I need a check on his internal systems. Heart, lungs, that kind of thing." I dig in the man's pockets and come up with nothing. "AND GET THIS BODY IDENTIFIED!"

I look around at the multitude of torture tools around the room. "Now, what have we here?" I look around, and pull the nearest tray of syringes over to me. I pull a petri from my pocket and put a few drops of liquid from each syringe into it, placing the lid back on and running out of the room. I run to a storage closet, and dig through until I find what I'm looking for. A small microscope lies on a shelf in said closet, dusty and forgotten. "hello, you beauty. Someone hasn't been using you." I say to it as I pull it out, brushing the dust off.

I run back to the room and place the petri dish under the microscope, foucusing the lenses. "I don't see any floaties..." I say, mostly to myelf. I turn around and look at Donovan. "I need fire."


End file.
